sikkim: first day!

I wanted to go somewhere out of the ordinary in India, but had no particular plans. When a guy called Kiran Varanasi posted something on IM about going to Sikkim, I replied.

Sikkim is a small state in Northeastern India, wedged in between Nepal and Bhutan. It is a fairly long distance from anywhere, and is reached either by way of a five hour and bumpy taxi ride from a small and pissant Bengali town, or via helicopter. Sikkim is known for its incredible Himalaya landscapes, its impressive Tibetan Buddhist monasteries, and its reputation as some sort of untouched and mostly left-alone sort of hill top paradise, where the trees bloom with un-named flowers and red pandas frolic in the rhododendron jungles. It is also an excellent destination for trekking, the real kind, the kind you read about as a kid and always wanted to do: yaks and porters and walking up the sides of mountains.

To Kiran and I, all of this was catnip. A cursory introduction on IndiaMike.com, and we decided we'd go there together.

This, of course, sounds incredibly risky. Going on a two week vacation with some random dude you've never met before? That you first encountered on the Internet? Do you want to be murdered and thrown into a pit?

But: I'm of the Internet generation. I've met tons of people from the internet and not a single one of them has murdered me. I figured my odds were good, right? I looked him up and found his blog which involved a lot of ruminations about history and the philosophical ramifications of the Internet and esoteric literature. Like MY blog. This seemed promising.

Kiran's from Andra Pradesh, and specializes in work with computer research, primarily involving motion tracking systems and other things I am not intelligent enough to adequately describe. He's lived and worked in America and Europe, and is currently a PHD candidate in Grenoble. (Now a PHD as I write this! Congrats, buddy).

We ID'ed each other after some cell phone tag: I was finishing up a blog post. We sized up each other up. He looked less like a criminal on the run from the Turkish mafia, and more like a tired person who has just flown from France. I hope I looked as little like a drug-smuggler on a bender as possible, but with me, there's no guarantee. We immediately began discussing (I think) some really esoteric shit involving South Indian history. I thought to myself: This was going to go just fine.

Our flight to Bagdogra out of the startlingly nice—how long will THAT last—Delhi airport was on time. An hour and a half long or so jaunt over to East Bengal. From there, we planned on taking the helicopter to Gangtok. You know. As one does.

But, seriously. Getting to Gangtok is not a particularly easy process. The other option is a six hour long taxi ride. The taxi ride costs around 40 dollars each. The helicopter? 60 dollars. Takes an hour and a half. Glorious views. Did not outwardly appear to be held together with duct tape and glue. Decision made.


This is Kiran. Sometime you can meet nice people on the Internet!

It was an utterly fantastic ride. The helicopter did not dissolve into flaming pieces and shoot us out of the sky. Instead, there were remarkable vistas of the immense green space of the Bengal delta, seguing into the higher and higher, ever higher hills of the Himalaya. Villages up so high that you can't imagine anyone living there without horking down oxygen canisters like Skittles. (Also, ridiculously high altitude corn fields and what appeared to be high-altitude forest cows. Always going to find these things in India, anywhere, any time, possibly under rocks).


Unfortunately, I had not bought my new, awesome camera at this point. This is my explanation for why the photos are, shall we say, inadequate.

Gangtok appeared over the ridge. It's your classic Himalaya city, I suppose, at least if you're the kind of person who has a preconcioeved idea about what Himalayan citiesa re supposed to look like. If I have to use the Shangri-La metaphor one more time when describing this place to people, I am going to choke a bitch. Just go out and read Lost Horizon, okay? Then be sort of amused by the woo-woo 1930's philosophy in it and the whole CRAGGY ADVENTURER AND BEAUTIFUL MAIDEN aspects and YOU CAN NEVER RETURN then have a brief contemplate vis a vis George Mallory then you can put it down, and I can leave the damned metaphor alone.

We decamped into the tourist office, where they stamped our passports, offered us tea, and were very friendly. The tea and the friendliness were recurring themes in Sikkim. (You'll have to pee a lot. Thankfully, Sikkim has far and away India's cleanest bathrooms).

We ended up in a share-jeep to our lodgings, with a woman who insofar as I could determine was Sikkim's head of tourism. She was very attractive and professional, and was very intent on us having a good time. "You're staying at a good place," she said, approvingly.


Kiran took this one.

We were. The Hidden Forest Retreat, which I had found through the scientific method of Tripadvisor, turned out to be pretty much exactly what the name described. Just close enough to town for convenience, with a view that would belong perfectly in a painting on a nostalgic Nepali restaurants wall. The owners have a side business in cultivating and growing exotic orchids. Everything is quiet, the air is cool, the owners are friendly and sleep excellent English, and they bring you tea and biscuits and let you have a nice sit-down and enjoy the far-off song of birds with unpronounceable names. In other words, it is nothing like the rest of India whatsoever.



This is the view from my hotel room's little balcony. I think this was a deal for twenty dollars or so, including excellent meals.

We headed off to downtown Gangtok for dinner. The hotel was a bit far from town and, this being Sikkim, there were lots of hills, so we hailed down one of Gangtok's fifty million empty taxis. Gangtok does not exactly see a lot of tourism, so finding a free taxi is an easy endeavor - and the taxis are all jeeps covered in decals and sparkly Nepali signs anyhow. It turned out that we had arrived during the Biswakarma Puja, a religious celebration that is devoted mostly to guys who drive cars for a living. Lord Biswakarma is the Hindu deity devoted to architecture and engineering, which has come in the modern era to be represtend by technology, factories, and of course, cars. As Indian trucks are usually incredibly exuberantly decorated to begin with, the end result of all that decoration during Puja time is pretty impressive.

The taxi drivers in town were understandably extremely jazzed about this. They had all gone in together on a very large flowery display for the puja ceremony, were throwing a party, and had, judging by their behavior, gone in on a bunch of the local moonshine (chang) to liven things up. We got invited to attend the puja by a couple of taxi drivers, but didn't make it for reasons I am currently unable to entirely recall. This did mean that our time in Gangtok involved a lot of decorated cars, trucks, and taxis, and lots of incredibly excited young men covered in bodypaint yelling whenever a taxi went by. It was fun.

One of Kiran and I's many points of agreement is food. We agree that we both like it, and we agree that we will eat anything, and we really agree that the primary point, or at least one of the major points, of foreign travel is eating food we have never eaten before. We decided to find some Sikkimese food.

We decided on Tangerine, located at the Chumbi Residency hotel. It's three flights of stairs down to the dining room, but it's worth the walk: the open dining room is lovely and ambiently lit, and you can choose to sit at a table or kneel on mats. The menu offers authentic Sikkimese specialties alongside the usual Indian suspects.

Sikkimese food is much more similar to Chinese and Tibetan food then it is to Indian food. No surprise there, as Sikkim is extremely culturally distinct from low-land India. There's a lot of bamboo shoots involved, and a lot of fermented or preserved vegetables. Although Sikkim is at a high elevation, the low-lands are tropical, and a wide array of fruits and vegetables are available, as well as river fish. Momos, the popular Tibetan dumplings, are ubiquitous here, as well as gyathuk, a kind of Tibetan noodle soup that is not particularly distinguishable from other Chinese pork-noodle-soup concoctions. The Sikkimese are also fond of eating wild fiddlehead ferns when they are in season, as well as stinging nettles. Unfortunately, neither were available when we were in Sikkim. The Sikkimese, like any self respecting mountain people, have a healthy array of incredibly potent alcoholic beverages. More on that later.

We were both pleased to discover that the Sikkimese happily eat pork—almost impossible to find in most parts of India. Beef is also available, though judging by its relative cheapness when compared to the other meats, I think "beef" actually means "old yak that we can't use to haul stuff up mountains anymore." I wouldn't over-question it.



This was a very subtle bamboo shoot curry, that tasted much more Chinese then Indian. Plenty of ginger and garlic, and a little bit of soy, thickened with some corn starch. The Sikkimese call bamboo "tama." As previously noted, they eat a lot of it. You have to boil it with turmeric water for about 15 minutes before it is edible, in case you were wondering.



This is pork gyari, a Sikkimese pork curry prepared with sliced and smoky-flavored pork, with ginger, garlic, onion, and what tasted like soy sauce. Tasty, especially when one hasn't eaten pork in a month or so and is experiencing withdrawal symptoms.

We also tried an interesting local soup—which I have been unable to identify on the Internet—that seemed to involve greens, mushroom, and lentils. I must also note that Kiran and I, both enormous snobs, gave Tangerine's bhindi masala an enthusiastic thumbs up.

We walked through town for a while, and decided to stop and have a coffee at a achingly hip cafe up some small side-street. A light rain began to fall, and we sat in a nearly empty cafe. I had a cappucino. There was an indie band playing inside. Everything was quiet and very clean, and decorated with independent art. They were selling CDs by a local Sikkimese underground rapper.
"This is nothing like India," I think I said.
"Nothing at all," Kiran said.
"You keep on thinking that the Sikkimese are going to rip you off, or something. All this niceness - they've got to be up to something."
"And they actually are that nice! They really are!"
"It's freaking me out."
We were silent for a moment contemplating this. The rain fell, and people with multi-colored umbrellas passed by quietly in the night. It was something like a Hopper painting, but in Sikkim, and far far away.

The niceness of the Sikkimese would hold true throughout our two weeks in their country. It is a bit jarring when compared to mainland India, where scamming tourists has been elevated to the level of an art, a philosophy, a science that for all I know is taught in semi-undercover vocational schools across the subcontinent. Maybe it's just because Sikkim sees so few tourists that they haven't bothered yet. Maybe it's because the Indian government filters a lot of money into Sikkim to stop the natives from getting cantankerous. Maybe they really are an authentic, honest-to-god, Happy People. It's hard to say.

We also sorted out our trek that night. More on that later.

We headed back to our hotel by way of exuberantly decorated taxi, after spending about half an hour in a parking garage watching as the drivers set up for the Vishnakarma puja, drank a lot, and joked around with each other in Nepali. We selected a driver whose tire was blown out, and so we sat around and communicated in Hindi (Kiran) and in dramatically simplified English (me) while we waited. The Sikkimese remained nice. My hotel room was nicer. I slept like a rock.

It was all so quiet.

Haridwar: Sacred Rivers, Baggage Check Annoyance

I had to go down the hill again. I had a train booked to Delhi, leaving from Haridwar. I'd planned to spend at least a day checking out Haridwar and the ghats, of course - since shouldn't everyone who comes to India see the ghats, isn't that entirely essential? But it looked like a non-rainy day was dawning in Mussoorie, and the air was crisp and clean, I had a plate of cheese toast - well, it all seemed very unfortunate. I arranged a taxi for 10:30 anyhow. And down the mountain we went.

Getting to Mussorie by car - the only way to get there - is never fun. I may submit that going down is worse since 1. you do pick up some speed and 2. all the hair-pin turns are done at a good 45 miles an hour give-or-take. At least there's little traffic. Some local wit has put up signs ruminating on the splendour of nature every half-mile or so along the route.

Haridwar is probably the most sacred city on the Ganges, though it recieves less visitors then Varanasi or Rishikesh. This is the point where the waters that flow down from the Himalaya meet the plains proper, and as such, it's an especially venerated spot. This also means the water is slightly cleaner then it is downstream, which is good to know if you are crazy enough to consider taking a dip. Hint: I wouldn't do it unless you are trying really hard to start an exhaustive tropical microbe collection.

It's considered one of the seven most sacred cities in India: the legends say that it was one of the spots where ambit, the elixir of life, was spilt from Garuda's pitcher. In Sanskrit, "Haridwar" is translated as "The Gate to God," in case you were unclear on the import of the place. It's about an hour from Rishikesh, give or take, but sees far fewer tourists. Rishikesh seems to have cornered the market on the whole "attracting spiritually minded and rather dim white people for yoga lessons" thing. (Ladies: If a man claiming to be a Sacred Indian Holy Man offers you a private lesson in spiritual yoga? For fuck's sake, do not believe him. Why do people have to be told these things?)


This is probably not a good idea for the casual tourist.

I vividly remember reading, in "The Search for the Pink Headed Duck," about the author's swim in the Ganges. He dove in to beat the heat, swam a few strokes, and promptly bumped into a bloated and half-burned corpse. Hindus like to burn their dead and cast the remains off into the water, you see. Which renders the Ganges a bit of a no-go when it comes to pleasure swimming.

Every four years, the massive Kumbh Mela festival occurs, and this year, it happened at Haridwar.. It is the largest gathering of humans in one spot in the world, with up to 5 million people participating on a single day.. (And if anywhere can pull that off, it's India!). The Kumbh Mela sounds like an astounding spectacle and a testament to the spirit and will of humanity. Sounds lovely, but Kumbh Mela celebrations are also plagued by the phenomena of deadly human stampedes Someone gets in an argument, someone gets frightened, someone runs, someone else runs, everyone is fucking running and unless you are fast, strong, or tall, your ass is getting trampled into putty. Poor Wal Mart guy on Black Friday here in the states had it easy compared to this. One recent stampede apparently occurred when a particularly stupid sadhu (Indian holy man) decided to toss a handful of gold coins into the crowd. What you might expect to have happened....happened.



The other interesting thing about Haridwar? It functions as a sort of genealogical center for all of India. Brahmin Pandits keep detailed records on a huge number of Indian families here. It's still possible for Indians to visit, submit their family name to the proper pandit, and learn about the history of their family - often dating back as far as seven generations, kept on hand written ledgers. This is possible due to Haridwar's status as a pilgrimage site: pandits got in the habit of recording family visits and taking down their genealogical status beside. When people came here to burn a deceased relative, they would dutifully go to their pandit (often assigned by region or family) and update the ledgers. A pretty clever system and one that continues to some extent today. You may be surprised to know that these ledgers are on microfilm in Utah at the Genealogical Society of Utah, Mormons being among the world's most dedicated genealogists.

As Haridwar is a sacred city, meat and alcohol are entirely banned within its confines. When I found that out, I was very glad I'd decided to spend four days in Mussoorie instead. Call me a heathen, but I really like my animal flesh and whiskey.


Unfortunately, I didn't get to see much of Haridwar, due to yet another Indian Stupid Ass Rule, of which there are a remarkable number. You can only leave luggage that locks in the left-baggage room at the train station. Great. I had a large, lockable backpack, a day backpack, and a duffle bag. Needless to say, the duffle? Wasn't locking. As I had all my valuables in the backpack, which I intended to carry with me all day - you don't leave good stuff in left luggage rooms - I tried to explain that all the duffle contained was dirty underwear, contact-lens solution, clothes with mud stains on them, and some mildewing shorts. No go. IT MUST LOCK, MADAME. IT MUST LOCK.

Which meant I had to leave the (lockable) day pack behind. And put my laptop, my wallet, my camera, and all my computer stuff into my large, unwiedly duffle bag and haul it around all day. This was not the most secure I've ever felt. And considering how off-balance I was, all a thief would have had to do to make off with all the things I value most in the world was trip me, snatch the bag, and run like hell. Haridwar not being known for its order and civility, I was, needless to say, worried.



I did try. I wandered around town for a while, watched people abluting in the river at the Har-ki-Pauri ghat. There weren't too many of them. Guess it's the off-season. There's an enormous warren of shops around the river banks, catering to the almost incomprehensible number of pilgrims that come here during special occasions, and I wandered through there for a while. Had an all right thali at a fast food place that looked cleanish. Evaded a couple of crazy naga-sadhus. (They like leaping out at you since they are naga-sadhus and they get to do weird things). Beggars: everywhere, very aggressive.

I'll confess that I'm a dick about beggars. I completely ignore them. I look through them. I don't acknowledge them. If they're really forward, I might shake my head as subtly as possibly. If I'm pissed off, I might use the old hand-sweeping gesture, which is known and respected throughout the world as Please Fuck Off. I will also relate to you that being a dick (like me) means that beggars and touts almost always leave me alone or go away after a minute or so when they realize that nothing short of punching me in the face or tripping me is going to get my extended attention. We're brought up to be polite and acknowledge people who address us or come up to us. This behavior is great in developed countries and is very stupid in impoverished ones. I don't really have anything against these guys, I guess - trying to hustle for a living, whatever - but I also am not going to give them any of my time.

If you want to help the poor and hungry and sick in India, donate to an organization. (I have my own thoughts on "volunteering" for two week stretches so you can get adorable pictures of yourself with pathetic looking street children and show all your friends how nice you are, but that's another post). Don't give handouts on the street. And if you must, be careful and remember that this will often result in a mob of people *all* wanting a couple hundred rupees. I've seen it happen, and it's not something you want to experience.



Ended up taking the gondola up to the Mansa Devi Temple at the top of the hill, mostly for the 10 minutes of peace and quiet the ride might afford me.

Unfortunately, it's impossible to get a good shot from the top. I declined to go inside the temple. Didn't feel like taking off my shoes and wading into a crush of people in a small space with all my possessions dangling awkwardly off my shoulders. There's a tree in there you can tie a string onto for good luck. Thankfully, my luck held out just fine throughout India this go round.


Very large and very cool statue of Shiva in the middle of the river.

I gave up, eventually. Too many child beggers around with little grabby hands, too many people looking at the duffle bag and contemplating what was inside it, etc etc etc. I ended up spending two hours in an Internet cafe. I headed out of the cafe to see if I could score some more cheese toast at the curiously named Big Ben Cafe right outside the train station. The cheese toast was awful, but I did get to meet a girl named Susie Hughes. She was from Northern California, on a round the world trip, and was having one of those bad days, the bad days that occasionally creep up on you when you are traveling alone, getting kind of sick, and are not sure about what's happening next. I struck up a conversation with her, since, well, that's what I do, I'm all about the small talk. We figured out we'd be in Bangkok at the same time in a month and exchanged contact information.

By then: getting dark. Still had my laptop and my Iphone and my wallet in a large, unwieldy duffel bag. I decided to take the cowards route out. The Luxury Hotel Route. There were signs all over town for this place, one of the very few luxury hotels in this city. Not surprising that they are building luxe hotels in Haridwar now, though - after all, there are more and more rich Hindus every year, and sure, they want to ablute in Mother Ganga, but they also want someone to press their clothes for them while they're away and leave a little mint on the pillow, you know what I mean?



On the way out, I came upon this parade. Don't ask me what for, but it pleased me. A New Orleanian is always pleased on some deep, essential level by a good noisy parade.

I ended up at the lovely Godwin Hotel on Rishikesh Road. I will gush about them because they are very nice, let me hang out in their lounge drinking fantastic cappuccino and using wi-fi for free, and even gave me free chocolate since I looked lonely. Please patronize their business if you are in Haridwar.



They had an excellent (vegetarian) restaurant, called The Golden Mushroom. In accordance with the title, I had saag with mushrooms, which was excellent. The texture is a bit odd at first, but just think of creamed spinach and you're pretty much in business.



This mixed vegetable tandoor platter was absolutely superb. The key: high quality paneer. Paneer is usually low quality and utterly tasteless, but good paneer is at least on par with a quality feta for texture and deep flavor interest. This was the good stuff, marinated in yogurt and spices and served on skewers with capsicums, onion, and pineapple.

I got to the train station early, since it's what I do. Sprung my luggage from jail and chatted with the luggage-keep man about his son studying in California. A remarkable number of Indians have kids studying within a 100 mile radius of my Northern California hometown. It was cleaner then most Indian train stations -not saying much, but at least there wasn't the pervasive smell of piss in the air like there is in Delhi. There were foreigners, everywhere. Most of them my age and traveling in groups of three and four, wearing clothes they thought were "Indian" so that they might respect the culture, and at the same time sporting piercing that would make any respectable Aunties' head explode if her own offspring had them.

In lieu of entertainment and in need of a united front, I chatted to an extremely spaced out looking European couple, who allowed me to drop their bags down with theirs. We drank tea and waited. "We just came from a month up in the Himalaya," he said, "near the Valley of Flowers. Just rented a cabin up there with no electricity, no running water. Just kinda ran around and got back to nature, you know? Like a three days hike up there."
"Yah, it was very lovely," the woman said. She looked somewhat terminally stoned.

Wow. Hippies, yes. But hippies with resolve.

"Then, we come down to Rishikesh for some yoga,yeah? But shit, so many messed up yoga teachers there! Such bullshit! You know,you are doing a pose and the guy, he call himself a sadhu - he's coming over and adjusting you, getting really close. Grabbing you all over. Rishikesh."
I mentioned I'd spent some time in Bangalore.
"Oh, yeahhh, we live in Gokarana," the man said. "I live in Gokarana for, like, past 11 years, teaching yoga. But India, ah, fuck India! I cannot wait to get the fuck out of here! Everything always dirty, always smelling like piss.."
At this moment a child beggar with bandages that may or may not have been fake came up and attempted to grab at the German guy's leg. He growled a couple of words in Hindi and the kid slunk grudgingly away.
"Why'd you stay so long?" I asked.
The kid had hid himself behind a column and was obviously planning another attack.
"Ah, you know? You get caught in one place, man. But it's all going to hell, Gokarana, whatever. Maybe it was nice when I was younger. Now? Maybe I go back to Spain, whatever. Ibiza, the coast. Like, a fucking civilized country."

He may sound extreme to you but I understood him reasonably well. The more time you spend in India, the more you despise it and - at the same time - you more you love it, find it impossible to leave. The German man was trapped in a classic Indian feedback loop. He will probably never escape. I doubt that I shall, either.

Our train schedule seemed to be posted very late. I went to the schedulers office and personally hunted it down. "Fine, fine, fine, Madame," he said, speaking in Indian triplets, "Fine, fine, fine," and he pulled it out from subterranean desk and showed me. The window to the office was immediately crowded with the faces of seven exceedingly eager looking young railway workers, staring at me with extreme interest.

I leapt on the train. Had managed to secure myself a first-class bunk, not that it really mattered - only a five hour run to Delhi. Another woman was already in there, and we exchanged pleasantries and I sacked out with a quickness. Thank goodness for the free blankets. They air-condition those things to Arctic-wasteland temperatures. (I know a couple guys who only travel Sleeper - ie, 3rd class - just to avoid the Death Fans).

One more day in Delhi, then off to Bagdogra airport. Where I'd hop a remarkably economically priced helicopter to Sikkim.

Delhi: The Ridge, The Golf Club, The Mutiny

Raan al Sikander. It's a beautiful thing. Named after Alexander the Great of course. (Sikander himself!)

One afternoon in Delhi, Sheila had a friend over for lunch. He's a history professor at St. Stephen's College in Delhi, one of the city's predominant educational institutions, and taught Rajeev when he was a student there. He was from Australia at one point, (Fremantle, to be exact) but he's been in India for more then 50 years and has taken up Indian citizenship, has almost entirely repatriated himself. Most importantly: when Rajeev fell ill, he was there. Even when he had his schizophrenic breaks, he came to the house and talked to him, kept him company. Although he's pushing 86, he still works as a residence advisor at the university. And he still comes to see Rajeev and Sheila, once or twice a month.She vacillated some on inviting me. "He's terribly old, you see," she said. "He's very old and he might bore you."

(The probable worry: that I might bore him).

"But I have specially ordered raan al sikander, of course, and I know you do like that." She thought. "So perhaps you could put yourself out. Come over for lunch."

And I did. Raan al sikander is, of course, Indian style leg of lamb. Absolutely divine, and Sheila's Guwhati cook does a bang-up job of it. Tender and delicately spiced meat. Served with bhindi masala, just the way I like it.

"Well, I've got something to show you two, and Rajeev," he said, as we sat back in our chairs, in a state of post-feast recuperation. One of his students had prepared a video on the Ridge.

The Delhi Mutiny was India's first great surge against British rule, an immense outpouring of popular anger and outrage. It all started in 1857, when the sepoys - Indian soldiers in the pay of the British - exploded into action against their employers, who had been under the cheery impression that the Indians were perfectly happy with the invasion of their country. The reason cited for the explosion of violence was a religious one; a rumor spread that the bullet cartridges the army was issued - the wrappings of which had to be bitten off to be used - were greased with cow and pig fat. As this was abhorrent to both Hindus and Muslims, the Sepoys revolted in various areas across British India, with action occurring from Meerut to Peshawar. It was a close fight for a while there, and the Indian rebels were only decisively put down with the fall of Gwailor in late 1858. It was the first indication to the previously blissfully ignorant British that India was not willing to humbly submit to the Crown forever - a conflict that would, a few generations later, come to a head under the leadership of Gandhi.

Delhi was the scene of one of the most savage and protracted battles of the Mutiny, and it was the Ridge that served as the East India Company's base during the infamous 1857 siege. The sepoys had, as a nationalist play, decided to attempt to restore the Mughal Empire to its pre-British eminence: they flocked to Delhi to attend the aged (and deeply unenthusiastic) Emperor Bahadur Shah. The rebel forces managed to violently push the British forces and their families out of the city, with a copious amount of bloodshed - much of it civilian - on both sides. British troops were either scattered or unavailable. The future of Britain's ascendency over India lay very much in doubt. As may perhaps be obvious, the British did defeat the Indian rebels. The Last Mughal, Bahadurr Shah - forced to be an unwilling nationalist symbol for the mutineer forces - was captured and taken into British custody. His three sons were captured the next day at Humayun's tomb by East India Company official William Hodson, whose clemency only extended to their father. He stripped them naked, forced them to kneel and shot all three of them dead at the Khooni Darwaza (Bloody Gate). Their heads were, thoughtfully, presented to their father after the fact. The unfortunate Bahadur II died in exile in Burma.

Today, Delhi University and St. Stephen's both abut it the Ridge. The former battleground has become an enormous green space in the center of the city,much of it a biodiversity park that has been allowed to exist in a fairly untouched state. Hordes of large and deeply terrifying monkeys roam the area, as well as Delhi University students looking for a good place to canoodle (as occurs everywhere). The professor's student decided to focus on the Flagstaff Tower in her video, a small building of British origin that served as a refuge for the scattered and mostly civilian British survivors of the May fighting. It's on the Ridge, and very near to the University. But it hasn't been kept up, and almost no one knows what the Flagstaff Tower is, or why it was (at one point) important as a place of a refuge and an important icon of the Delhi Mutiny.

"You have to conclude," the Professor says in the video, sitting in front of the Tower on a hot day. "You have to conclude that Delhites don't care about their history. Even though they've got so much of it around them.

The video couldn't quite play all the way. Even I, the 21st century representative, couldn't repair it. "Ah, well, then," the professor said. "That's that."

"Well, I think I'll have to go to the Ridge, then," I said. "The video makes it look quite interesting."

The professor either could not pick up about 98% of what I said at any given time (which wasn't much - I knew my place) or simply found it irrelevant. "I guess you can, if you'd like," he shrugged. "Why not."

Sheila gently but firmly forced him to take a nap, in the way she forced everyone to bend to her will. I headed back to the International Center by way of Lodhi Gardens, thinking of the past. The professor was not in any way shape or form of this era, had committed himself to history, to drawing rooms in Delhi. I'd asked him about Australia. He'd shuddered. "Ugh. That horrible place. It's so awfully new. No respect for history. No history at all, and no culture either."

"I thought it was all right," I said, a bit chastened.

"You did," he said. A subtle judgement on my character.

I dutifully set off for the Ridge the next day. I corralled an exceedingly proud Sikh driver outside Khan market (but all Sikhs are, aren't they?). I looked at the map he had in the backseat as we drove off. "You have no need for any other cab driver in Delhi, madame," he said.
"Oh?" I said, looking out the window at the Gandhi monument. I keep on not visiting it.
"For I am Mister Delhi," he said.


Here's a photo of a goddamn monkey. I hate monkeys.

"Oh," I said. Forty minutes later, we were at the Ridge. I began walking up the hill. It's a beautiful place, totally unexpected in the middle of the occasionally horrific urban jumble that is Delhi. It feels like a real jungle, full of monkeys and mysterious bird calls.



Populated by a healthy number of my beloved giant mutant snails, as evidenced here.



As expected, the building is not spectacular. St. Stephen's uses it as a storehouse for athletic equipment. There isn't any signage - you have to know what it is you're looking at. Still, you can imagine what did happen here, if you squint a little.



Here's how the Flagstaff Tower looked right after the Mutiny. I suppose the Ridge was massively defoliated by the conflict, but I'm not really sure. The photo was taken by the enigmatic and fascinating photographer Felice Beato, one of history's first war photographers. His eery and stark photos of the Indian Mutiny are incredible and well worth a look if you've any interest at all in the history of the era.


Sheila, Rajeev, and I went off to have dinner at the Delhi Golf Club. This entailed getting dressed up. The Golf Club is society.

One has to wonder what the enraged sepoys of the Mutiny would have made of the Club. There is no sport, no pursuit, more British then golf after all, no recreational activity so obtusely luxurious. A golf course requires an incredible amount of space to build, after all, and then it also requires an incredible amount of effort to maintain.

But then, look at the clientele. All Indian. They've entirely inhabited the Golf Club, and so the club is an entirely Indian institution. It's not like India hasn't put up some of the world's very finest golfers. This is perhaps the end-game of the British colonization. The British left an inordinate amount of things behind, but Indians took them up, tweaked them a bit, and made them entirely their own. (The English language is perhaps the paramount example of this - Indian English having become a very separate but entirely relevant offshoot of the King's own tongue).

The food at the golf club is quite good. A step up over limp burgers, fries, and beer at most American golf clubs. The bar upstairs is convivial in that British Indian way, and you can sit at little glass tables and watch the football (soccer) game and argue over things, over tandoor items and whatever else pleases you. So we did.



They have a servicable fish tikka...



And very nice roomali roti...



And a damn good bhindi masala. God, I love bhindi masala. Why can't anyone make it right outside India? (Well. Other then me).



Like we did two years ago, Sheila and I took out our drinks, our glasses of whiskey, and looked out over the golf course in the night time. An abandoned and lovely red Lodhi tomb sits on the first hole, and spotlights bathe the greens in a rather ethereal, moonlit light. I remember what she told me last time we were here. "There's cobras on the golf course," she said. "It's a bit of an obstacle."

"What's the rules say about cobras?"

"If your ball comes to rest on one - don't ever pick it up."

Duly noted.

Old Delhi: The Bazaar, Moti Mahal, Lots of Photos

Somewhere in the old delhi bazaar.

Old Delhi is the only place I've been in Asia that really and truly scared me. Old Delhi is the nucleus of Northern India, maybe one of the concentric centers of the earth itself. There's nowhere I've been that comes anywhere near it in terms of the throbbing vitality of it, the terrifying largeness of the people, the activity, the chaos that surrounds it. It's a gross immensity, sort of a vortex - you have to go through it you go to Delhi. It's where the main train station is. It's where Delhi began, and where Delhi was sacked (many times over the years), the seat of Mughal power, the seat of British power, a spiritual touch-point for many people and many generations. But, geography. Old Delhi is generally considered to be defined by the Chandni Chowk, the long street that runs through it, and is made famous by the dual Mughal immensities of the Red Fort and the Jama Masjid.

I remember this very clearly. I'm 19, on my first visit to Delhi. Auntie Sheila has let me use her car and driver for the morning. "You have to see Old Delhi, of course," she tells me, as she packs me into the car that morning. "You have to go walk around the Chandi Chowk." Well, okay, I think, I'll walk around the Chandi Chowk. Having no idea what that entailed.

She set me up. I'm certain of that now. Sheila did it on purpose.


Cushions for sale amid a churning sea of umbrellas. India makes you realize the shocking number of umbrellas our planet harbors. As I have lost upwards of ten umbrellas in three months, I know that of which I speak.

The little Grey ford came out of the green and luxurious embassy district that Sheila lived in, and we turned onto the highway, and we kept going and going. Delhi turned more and more like the India I was most familar with the, chaotic but mostly-conceivable mess of Bangalore. Something I could handle, parse out. Then we got into the Chandi Chowk district, the outskirts of the Center, then we drove down the Chandi Chowk. There were more people there then I could concieve of in the universe, riding bicycles and autorickshaws and horses (yes), all of them wearing differently colored clothes, all of them leaning on their horns at approximately the same time. On either side of me were Delhi's two defining monuments, of course - the shockingly huge red swell of Shah Jahan's Red Fort, and next door, the big mosque, the mosque, the Jama Masjid. People were funneling into the bazaar to the left of the mosque, shoulder-to-shoulder, carrying sacks of things on their shoulders and leading little kids in school uniforms by the hands - every other man or woman seemed to be wearing the requisite garb of the Ramadan season. "I drop you at the clothes market, okay?" the driver said, and I agreed since I didn't know any better. He impossibly threaded the car through stall after stall of men selling fabrics and knock-off North Face jackets.

He ejected me.


The bazaar (a mere iota of it) as seen from the steps.

I was wearing a sundress. I got out, and walked to the steps of the Jama Masjid (about five or six paces). I stood on the steps and looked down them, down to the bazaar and down to the Jama Masjid. Beggars and street kids were already starting to advance on me. Large and odiferous looking vultures picked at the rubbish pile to my right. There were three or four lepers in mats on the sidewalk nearby, and one of them had a little ribbon of white spittle coming out of his mouth, and someone was playing the American Top 40 hits in my ear from a pirated CD stall. I have never felt so astoundingly out of place. Like I had been emitted from an alien spacecraft or something, halting - like my first steps on a new world, testing the ozone for breathability. Finding it somewhat wanting. "You give me change, madame!" a grubby street urchin at my knee said. So it began.


Your friendly neighborhood goat head store.

I survived of course. And wanted to go back soon as I left. Old Delhi does that to you. It scares the shit out of you then makes you want to come back over and over again. There are few places in the world with such an incredible buildup of history, history overlaid upon history, a bazaar and a neighborhood with more stories and more happenings behind it then just about anywhere else on the planet. Ruskin Bond, in one of his books, tells of a mysterious Black Well lurking in one of the closed old haveli houses of Delhi. There are rumors of antiques stores selling things you couldn't obtain for love or money anywhere else. Things people lost all over the place re-apparating in Old Delhi. Probably people, too. I've met a few people on the road who lost a year or two of their lives in this neighborhood. One guy who spent his early twenties playing the black market round about the Delhi of the late 60's. One woman who spends her life as a photojournalist in conflict areas and, insofar as I could determine, comes to Old Delhi for R&R. Tougher then me.

"How'd you like it?" Sheila asked me when I got back. A little smile on her lips. How did I like it? Any response would involve about ten pages and footnotes.

"It was interesting," I said. "Real interesting."

"Uh huh," Sheila said.


The clothes market.

I got out of the taxi this time, and I walked five paces. And then I saw the stick. A bamboo stick, about the length of my forearm I'd guess. Probably some sort of construction site leaving. I picked it up - it was sturdy and strong. Perhaps it is time for a social experiment, I thought. I picked up the stick.

Northern India is tainted by sexual harassment. It's not an easy place to be as a woman - of any nationality - and it's especially hard if you're by yourself. Single women are fair game in Delhi. Single women are probably slatternly and easy, and you should try your luck, because why the hell not? Walking down the street in non-gentrified Delhi usually involves lewd commentary, being followed, and (if you're really lucky) one or two lightening-fast attempts at groping. Far as I can determine, it doesn't really matter what you wear, especially if you're a foreigner. This is the big stain on Delhi, a national shame. Fact is: women can't move about freely here. You are conspicuous, noticed, and to some extent hunted wherever you go. And it pisses you off more and more and more as every day goes by.

And so, the stick. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe I just wanted some agency. If someone grabbed me or got in my space, I could whomp them on the head in retaliation. Perhaps teach them an important lesson, or something. At least there was the visual deterrent factor. Right? Right.

I don't know if I should be proud or not about the stick. It's a bit of a moral quandary. Especially if you're into non-violence. (I'm not. At all. Just so you know).

The fact is? It worked. The stick absolutely, 100% worked. My usual North India experience as a blonde foreigner was turned on its head, entirely neutralized. A few men came at me with hands outstretched or tongues out and flapping around, shouting "HALLO YOU VERY SEXY YOU WANT FUCK," usual routine - and immediately stepped back in shock when they saw The Stick. "

"Whoa, whoa! Okay!" they'd say, giving me a very respectable amount of space. They'd go off giggling nervously to their buddies, hahah, look at that. Damn, that felt good.

What makes me feel better about The Stick? The fact that just about every woman I met on the street - and there weren't many, this is Delhi - smiled at me. A solidarity thing. "That's right!" one large Sikh woman said, as we passed each other. "That's right," she said. The schoolgirls giggled and offered me sly thumbs-up signs.

A later post here should be devoted to what Indian women go through on a daily basis when it comes to sexual harassment in India, and especially North India. Horror stories. "I know women who move to Delhi from South India," a friend of mine told me. "They get a good job, and they relocate. And you know what? They all come back. Because they can't go anywhere without getting grabbed, or followed. Something. They can't live free lives."

But about the Bazaar. Here, have some photos.



Much of the bazaars commerce centers around meat, and most of that meat is mutton. Butchers are rife here. I like seeing them. I'm a proud carnivore, but I'm also a realist. This is where supper comes from. Bouncing, adorable, delicious sheep and goats.



Getting nailed by a motorbike is a very very real possibility here. Keep your eyes open. There's really nothing you can do about the ground. I suggest not looking down ever.



Piles of aromatic something-or-another on the street. LIke most of India, Old Delhi is as much an olfactory experience as a visual one.



I don't think the legal department got consulted on this one.



These are piles of vermicelli noodles, commonly used in dessert dishes. Sevian is particularly popular. It's made with condensed milk, dried fruits and nuts, and cardamom, and it is delicious.



Yeah, there's something I like about butchers. Butchers have been considered the lowest of the low in most cultures in human history. India's no exception. More so, considering its deep vegetarian tradition and antique caste system. But the meat loving millions would be in dire straits without them. And I find a certain visual poetry in the whole affair. Maybe I'm blood thirsty. Those are, in case you were unsure, goat heads.



A man selling biryani on the street. There's some kind of conversation going on here. What do you think?



Hanging out by the red sandstone walls of the Jama Masjid. I've never been in . There's always something vaguely wrong about my dress. And it seems wrong somehow. A week after I left, five Taiwanese tourists were shot (non-fatally) by a supposed terrorist group at the Jama Masjid's gates. Whatcha gonna do?



More red sandstone. It's a damn hot day, but the walls are coolish.

I had lunch at Moti Mahal. The Moti Mahal. It's an absolutely iconic restaurant, considered to be one of the pioneers of the tandoori cuisine that has so efficiently and quickly swept the entire planet. It's said that the restaurant's founder, a Peshawari by the name of Kundan Lal Gujral, actually invented both tandoori and butter chicken. (Apparently, the tandoor oven was previously reserved only for bread, instead of meats). The restaurant began in Peshawar and was moved to its current Delhi location in 1947, after the Partition - and has been plugging on with shocking success ever since, drawing the affection of Indira Gandhi, Nehru, John F. Kennedy, Richard Nixon - in other words, everyone vaguely important who was sent to India on official business has eaten here.

There was no one there, which was somewhat curious. The interior of the restaurant is a bit 1960's mental hospital. But at least they have lots of fans operating on high-speed. I ordered my usual - tandoori chicken, tandoori gobi (cauliflower) and sat back. The owner of the place came over to chat, in lieu of anything better to do. "Did you know that Gordan Ramsey came and cooked here?" he asked me. No, I did not. But so The Ramsey did come to Moti Mahal. Engaged in one of those celebrity cookoff things that are so popular on food networks. Naturally, the Moti Mahal boys won hands down. The owner came over with a few photographs after I expressed interest. "That's us. When we won," he said, pointing to an image of both himself and Ramsey looking pleased with the universe.

The food was, as expected, excellent. Moti is also known for its Mughali style curries. Delhi is particularly known for curries made from mutton "variety" meats - you can order up goat brain curry here if so inclined. There are Moti Mahal outlets all over India now, although a family argument means that this Chandi Chowk branch bills itself as the One and Original Moti Mahal, Hands Down. I'm not prepared to argue.



The tandoori gobi had the interesting addition of sesame seeds up top. I think it does add a certain nutty depth to its flavor. A delicate yogurt marinade and a lot of spices, heavy on the aromatics. Really addictive stuff - and a lot of it. I couldn't finish it all.



And excellent chicken. Not too heavy on the yogurt - actually, I kinda like that. But juicy, excellent meat with a lot of complexity of flavor.



They talked me into ordering roti. However, missi roti are superb. It's a thin crunchy roti prepared with besam or gram flour, seasoned with fenugreek, ginger, nigella, chili powder, ajwain, and sesame. And brushed with an inordinate amount of butter. They are very savory, and incredibly delicious.

After lunch, I was going to go to the Red Fort. Which turned out to be closed.

So I didn't. But I did the next day.

Eating Stuff in the Car in Delhi: Kakori Kebab, Bhel Puri

Delhi, like the rest of India, is a bastion of street food. And the number one Delhi street food is, of course, the almighty kebab. Kebab functions as a catch-all word for a dizzying array of meat products on a stick here in India, but rest assured: whatever it is, it will be incredibly tasty. India being primarily Hindu and Muslim, kebabs are almost always made with mutton or chicken - vegetarian variants with paneer (cheese), potato, and mashed vegetables do exist.

Al Kauser
Off Sarder Patel Marg, near the Assam Bhavan. (Look for the stall with smoke coming off it, and lots of hungry people sitting on their cars. You can't miss it).




Sheila insisted that we try the kakori kebab at Al Kauser one night, and I was of no inclination to defy her. (I am rarely of such an inclination). Sheila, Rajeev, and myself accordingly jumped into the car, wherein Sheila grandly asked the driver to take us to the Kebab Place, and be quick about it. "It's just a stall, of course, but they are simply the most divine kakori kebabs in town. But it's just a stall, really."

(She was looking for an accomplice, in the dark art of Eating In the Car. We both knew it. And I was happy to oblige).

Al Kauser is a bit of a kebab stall institution, beloved by an entire generation of Delhi-ites for its kakori rolls. The kakori kebab roll, for the uninitiated, is made of ultra-finely cut ground lamb, ground to a fine paste and seasoned with garlic, cinnamon, cayenne, cardamon, cumin, and some other tasty aromatics. The result is an incredibly tender kebab that quite literally melts in your mouth, creating a decadently fatty explosion of flavor in one's mouth. As kakori kebabs are delicate things, they are usually served with ultra thin and buttery roomali roti. Traditional condiments are hyperactively spicy cilantro chutney with green chili, and pickled onions. Mix these elements up together and you've got a work of art. Kakori kebab is a foodstuff entirely suited for eating in your car or while standing up - that's the other beauty of them. And did I mention that kakori kebab is cheap?



Al Kauser is best known for its kakori kebab, but they also turn out a popular mutton burra kebab (mutton on the bone with a coating of yogurt and spices). Chicken tikka is on offer for wusses who can't handle mutton, but there's no real reason to bother. (I don't know why people bother with chicken tikka in general). Watching the cooks slap the kakori paste on the table and form it into kebabs at super-human speeds is half the fun. Must not be comfortable to spend all night working in a flaming inferno of a grill stall, but I'm glad they do it. As are a lot of people.

There is something delightful about devouring kakori kebab in the back of a car with a grand dame, dripping cilantro sauce and bits of roomali roti all over the upholstery. Since that is part of the sacred ritual of eating kakori kebab. It must not be abrogated. "God, I do love these!" Sheila commented after we polished off the last batch. She handed me a paper napkin. We both delicately and in a highly lady-like fashion wiped the mutton grease off our mouths. "You have to eat them in the car, darling," she said, as we pulled away. "It can't be done any other way."

Well, I'd concur.



We ended our casual-style dinner at a nearby shopping center, for bhel puri. Sheila has a bhel puri guy there she likes, and the three of us ordered up plates of the good stuff.



A lovely rendition. Plenty of fresh mango and onion, plenty of chutneys. A pleasant overdose of sev and seasonings. Not too dry, not too moist. Crunchier then most. Christ, I love bhel puri.



We adjourned to Haldiram's - one representative of India's ginormous Bengali fast-food chain - to sip on Diet Cokes and watch the locals sink their faces into thalis, samosas, and chaats. Sheila vacillated with the idea of getting some kulfi or some barfi, something like that, but talked herself out of it. "Too fatty," she sighed. "You know that Delhi is in the throes of an obesity epidemic."

Which it is. And we know why.

Dinner at the Assam Bhavan, Notes on our Assamese Pals

The Assam Bhavan in Delhi is Assam's official point of representation in the city - sort of like the state's official embassy within the capital. It is of interest to me primarily because it has a restaurant, specializing in Assamese specialities difficult to find outside of the homeland. Jakoi is a restaurant that has gained some popularity among the capital's foodie class. Unlike most Bhavan canteens, it's decorated in a reasonably upscale fashion, and has a rather extensive menu with some pretensions of grandeur. Most people go for the special thali, which provides a reasonably extensive overview of Assamese food for a reasonably low price.

You'll be out 350 rupees for the Paranpara special thali as pictured above, which includes fried fish, fish (hilsa) cooked in banana leaf, a choice of pigeon or duck curry, a couple of vegetable dishes, some Assamese style condiments, and a dessert. Well, in theory.

I sat outside, braving the inevitable depredations of doubtlessly malaria-carrying mosquitos. It's nice out there. Cushions, ambient lighting, and some pleasant decorative accents.



The fried fish in tangy curry (fish tenga) was pretty good, albeit exceedingly bony. The crust was crispy and not too heavy, and it didn't seem to suffer from over-frying as some other reviewers have reported.



The fish in banana leaf with coconut milk and spices might theoretically have been good, but was so filled with tiny bones that I about a nibble or two of edible meat off the sucker. I gave in after a minor but disquieting choking incident. The duck was also a bit tough, though I liked the rich ground spice flavored gravy. Plenty of bones, as is typical with Indian curries. I happen to adore poultry bones, so no complaints from me.



I really enjoyed the pitika, or mashed vegetable, which tasted like an Assamese riff on America's bland and beloved mashed potatoes. The daal and the interesting, semi-powdered Assamese condiments were quite good. I've certainly never tasted anything like some of these Assamese chutneys, which included two variations on kahudi or mustard paste (one with sodium bicarbonate?!), a kind of grated, fermented bamboo shoot (kharisa), and mahor guri, made with powdered gram lentils and chili. Unusual little nuggets, and quite tasty. I'd like to try these again in different contexts. The fried vegetable d'jour was a kind of stir-fried Indian melon whose name escapes me, which I am very fond of. It has a delightfully squashy texture, that crunches with seeds when you bite into it.

I was a bit peeved as I did not actually receive the promised "gooseberry welcome drink" or the dessert as listed on the menu. There was an awkward moment after the main thali plate was removed where I anticipated the arrival of some exotic dessert - and got the check instead. Not so pleasing. If you list a food item on your thali, sirs, you'd best bring it out.

Verdict? Jakoi is worth a visit if you are, like myself, a commited food adventurer who is always up for sampling something entirely new to the ol' palate. However, it's a restaurant with some considerable kinks to work out vis a vis service and food prepration. According to some other online reviews, the kitchen has an unfortunate tendancy to flake out some nights and be fine and dandy on others. If I return, I might give the forgettable meat dishes a pass and go with the vegetarian thali - the kitchen seems to know their way around a legume and a bitter melon a spot better then they do a cut of innocent waterfowl or fish. And ask them point-blank to bring out the dang dessert.



Many of the state Bhavan's have canteens, specializing in foods particular to the state. Not all of them allow outsiders in, but some do. Check before you amble in. If they're amiable, you'll get a cheap and undeniably authentic meal at a very reasonable price.

You may now be asking a fairly simple question. Where in the hell is Assam? And what is it?

Assam is a state in India's Northeast, occupied mostly by the Assamese people, who have their own language and a culture distinct from that of the rest of India. It was a contested region for most of its history - occupied by the Tai people, the Moghuls (briefly) and the Burmese - until the First Bengal War of 1824 to 1826, when the Indians occupied the territory and claimed it as their own. The people of Assam share Tai origins with the peoples of Southeast Asia, and are not related ethnically to the people of peninsular India. (Ever wonder where the word "Thailand" came from?)

Like many of India's northeastern states, it's been the scene of separatist violence in recent years, as groups like the United Liberation Front of Asom attempt to secure some margin of self-determination for their land. And nice land it is. Assam's a lush and heavily forested state, with a monsoon climate, incredibly biodiversity, and one of the last remnant populations of the one horned rhinoceros. You may also have hear of Assam before because of its justifiably famous variety of tea. I had hoped to visit one of Assam's superior national parks on this trip, but it was not to be. They were closed for this year's Eternal Monsoon. And as Assam is one of the world's wetter areas, I wasn't eager to test their resolve on the matter. Not interested in swimming to see equally aquatic rhinos. Not really.